Quotes about gael, page 3
On Irish Politics And Politicians
Politics in the Republic of Ireland with any joy I can't recall
Nepotism rife in the ranks of the three major parties Labour, Fine Gael and Fianna Fail
Jobs for their kin and their mates only Irish Politicians in their ways so small
In Politics since my time in Ireland suppose things would not have changed much at all
I was never a member of any Irish Political Party to me they seemed a very flawed lot
The way they conducted their business I certainly haven't forgot
Any one party not cleaner than the other honest politicians anywhere hard to be found
I recall amongst Irish Politicians that nepotism did abound
They grew old and retired on their big pensions they took care of themselves and their own
Honesty and fairness with them not a high priority the most of them for such not known
When they spoke of doing good for the Country they did not mean what they did say
They only helped their families, friends and relations respect to them I could not pay
There were a few honourable Irish Politicians just a few that I can recall
But honesty does not survive well amongst Politicians they are a flawed lot overall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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MacKrimmon's Lament
MacLeod's wizard flag from the grey castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, 'Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!
Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming;
Farewell, each dark glen, in which red-deer are roaming;
MacLeod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!
'Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell! - and for ever -
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never!
The
Banshee's
wild voice sings the death-dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me;
But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not shiver,
Though devoted I go - to return again never!
'Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Heroes Of Tureengarriffe
'Tis part of Duhallow and Sliabh Luacra history now how Sean Moylan and his men
Ambushed and inflicted heavy losses on the Black and Tans at Tureengarriffe Glen
Almost three decades before I was even born and all but nine decades ago
Since the heroes of North Cork and East kerry into the status of legends did grow
One thing that can be said of war is that heroes it never does fail to create
And even the victors of the smallest battles we always do see fit to celebrate
The winners write the history of the battles that's how it is and will always be
In the annals of Sliabh Luachra and Duhallow the heroes of Tureengarriffe created their own history
Around the fire-grate when I was a young boy the old men stories of battles told
They took up arms for Irish Independence when they were younger men in days of old
Long past their prime and they had done their fighting but at the end did it matter that much at all
The British left and the civil war then started which gave rise to the birth of Fine Gael and Fianna Fail,
The heroes of Tureengarrife now are resting in their towns and villages in cemeteries far away
Eventually they fell to the scythe of the reaper it can be said of them they had their day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Antrim
No spot of earth where men have so fiercely for ages of time
Fought and survived and cancelled each other,
Pict and Gael and Dane, McQuillan, Clandonnel, O'Neill,
Savages, the Scot, the Norman, the English,
Here in the narrow passage and the pitiless north, perpetual
Betrayals, relentless resultless fighting.
A random fury of dirks in the dark: a struggle for survival
Of hungry blind cells of life in the womb.
But now the womb has grown old, her strength has gone forth;
a few red carts in a fog creak flax to the dubs,
And sheep in the high heather cry hungrily that life is hard; a
plaintive peace; shepherds and peasants.
We have felt the blades meet in the flesh in a hundred ambushes
And the groaning blood bubble in the throat;
In a hundred battles the heavy axes bite the deep bone,
The mountain suddenly stagger and be darkened.
Generation on generation we have seen the blood of boys
And heard the moaning of women massacred,
The passionate flesh and nerves have flamed like pitch-pine and
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Born From the Blood of the Gael
I learned my history of Ireland
From my father every Friday night,
When he would arrive home from Madigan’s bar
Reciting in song and verse of Ireland’s fight.
He talked of Robert Emmett
And sang of the brave Wolfe Tone,
He spoke with pride of Padraig Pearse
Of James Connolly, he would recite a poem.
It was not the Guinness that fuelled his passion,
For his heritage, he would never part.
And he told me, that I, a son of the Diaspora
Was an Irish bhoy at heart.
He said that Brother Walfrid should be canonized a saint
For his vision and his dream.
For he brought faith and pride to the Glasgow Irish
With men proudly wearing the emerald green.
[...] Read more
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Lines On Captain Wogan. To An Oak Tree
To an Oak Tree, In the Churchyard of --, In the Highlands of Scotland, Said to Mark the Grave of Captain Wogan, Killed in 1649.
Emblem of England's ancient faith,
Full proudly may thy branches wave,
Where loyalty lies low in death,
And valour fills a timeless grave.
And thou, brave tenant of the tomb!
Repine not if our clime deny,
Above thine honoured sod to bloom,
The flowerets of a milder sky.
These owe their birth to genial May;
Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
Before the winter storm decay-
And can their worth be type of thine?
No! for 'mid storms of Fate opposing,
Still higher swelled thy dauntless heart,
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Rejoicing After The Battle Of Inkerman
Rejoice! the fearful day is o’er
For the victors and the slain;
Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore,
The Allies have won again!
Let our joy bells ring out music clear,
The gayest they’ve ever pealed;
Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer,
We are masters of the field
But list! dost hear that mournful wail
’Bove the joyous revelry?
Rising from hillside and lowly vale,—
Say, what can its meaning be?
From Erin’s sunny emerald shore
It trembles upon the gale,
And rises with the torrent’s roar
From the birth place of the Gael.
Fair Albion, too, in every spot
Of thy land of promise wide
[...] Read more
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Rouge Bouquet
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing:
"Go to sleep!
[...] Read more
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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Donal Campbell
DONAL' CAMPBELL
-Donal' Bane-
sailed away across the
ocean
With the tartans of Clan
Gordon, to the Indies'
distant shore,
But on Dargai's lonely hill-
side, Donal' Campbell
met the foeman,
And the glen of Athol
Moray will never see him more!
O! the wailing of the women, O! the storm of
bitter sorrow
Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro' Athol
Moray's glen
When the black word reached the clansmen,
that young Donal' Bane had fallen
In the red glare of the battle, with the gallant
[...] Read more
poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Burial of Saint Brendan
ON the third day from this (Saint Brendan said)
I will be where no wind that filled a sail
Has ever been, and it blew high or low:
For from this home-creek, from this body's close
I shall put forth: make ready, you, to go
With what remains to Cluan Hy-many,
For there my resurrection I'd have be.
But you will know how hard they'll strive to hold
This body o' me, and hold it for the place
Where I was bred, they say, and born and reared.
For they would have my resurrection here,
So that my sanctity might be matter shared
By every mother's child the tribeland polled
Who lived and died and mixed into the mould.
So you will have to use all canniness
To bring this body to its burial
When in your hands I leave what goes in clay;
The wagon that our goods are carried in
[...] Read more
poem by Padraic Colum
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